Crazes
by trisanamcgraw
Summary: Pieces written for the daily challenges presented at the livejournal community speedrent. [03: how do I make sense of what I've gained and what I lost?] [second place winners at speedrent]
1. Crazes, May 19, piggy bank

**Crazes**

by Trisana McGraw

_Author's Note: My first RENT fic, although I've been enjoying Jonathan Larson's genius (mostly in movie form) since November 2005. Written for the livejournal community speedrent challenge #26: _piggy bank. _Set pre-RENT. Also, I am in no way equating a six-year-old's hunger with withdrawal; my only point here is that, IMO, for Roger withdrawal regression. Title from Robert Frost's "Birches."_

---

If Roger had known what anguish withdrawal would bring, he almost wouldn't have started using. _Almost_.

The last time he remembered feeling this jittery, shaky, trembling yen – no, that was one of Collins' words, too peaceful for his violent need, too concise to contain the feeling that his body would be torn to shreds – _craving_ was when he was six: it was a muggy summer day in New York, and a cold popsicle was the only thing that would make it all bearable. But Roger didn't have any money – of course not; money was never commonplace. Any spare change or meager allowance he scrounged together he spent half as quickly. The only one who managed to keep any money was his eight-year-old sister.

The thought startled him like a bucket of cold water and – here was the worst part – comforted him nearly as well. He did allow himself to feel some misgivings, but his damp forehead and scratchy throat made the decision for him.

The high-pitched shatter of the ceramic pig jarred him a little, but he decided that it was a nerdy-looking pig anyway, what with its thick glasses and striped bow. Roger's opinion was, if you were going to play the "this little piggy" game, you might as well have a "this little piggy rocked a sold-out show at CBCB," but whatever. He scooped the coins out of the wreckage of the piggy ban, grabbing at the pennies that slipped through his stubby fingers; Roger was nothing if not sparing. He rushed out of Lizzie's room, his small hands overflowing with coins. He told himself that he would pay Lizzie back soon; he figured that he believed it, or that his six-year-old attention span was too short to linger on the matter any further.

Now Roger was sweating as badly as he had that day, and shaking so hard he resembled a kid with a spaz attack. He swept his hands along the counter, searching, searching . . . His hand jerked, not of its own accord, and plastic cases tumbled to the floor with resounding thuds. _Fuck_. He ran trembling fingers through his curls, but the resultant yanking only intensified his headache. Roger shoved his hands into the pockets of his plaid pants and set to pacing the strip of floor that connected their kitchen with the living room.

Over and over his fevered gaze locked on to the half-open door leading to Mark's room, but he tore his eyes away each time, nauseating guilt temporarily overcoming his withdrawal. He couldn't do it, he _couldn't_. Lizzie was one thing – she was his sister, and he was six years old, for crissakes – but Mark worked two shitty jobs just to make ends meet. Not to mention, in the last months, with Roger alternately listless and anguished and incapable of helping out, Mark had been covering medicine and rent and everything in-between.

_But Mark has some extra money_, Roger's delirious mind urged him, _you saw him hide it away the other night. He won't miss it anyway._ Nauseous only from withdrawal now, he strode into Mark's room. He didn't even pretend that he was going to pay it back because he knew that he wouldn't. He could only hope that Mark might understand.

"Roger?" Mark called as he closed the door to the loft. His friend wasn't in his normal prone position on the couch. A quick glance around as he set his camera and filming equipment on the table showed him that Roger was also not perched on the toilet seat in a feverish mess of spasms. (His heart had broken the night he found Roger like that.)

The unmistakable crash of a body against a bookcase and breathless curses led Mark to his own bedroom. Roger was crouched beside Mark's bed, his hands shoved beneath the mattress.

"Roger?" Mark asked haltingly, afraid of what reaction he would elicit.

Roger jerked around, nearly falling over. He tried to tug his hands out of the mattress, but they stuck. Even so, guilt was etched into his red face.

"Mark, I – I'm sorry," he stuttered, stumbling to his feet. "I . . . I just needed the money – it's so bad, it's so hard, and I just _can't_ –"

"Roger," Mark cut in, his voice soft and gentle. "It's okay, I understand. The money is yours."

Roger looked confused, but he immediately dropped to his feet again and searched beneath the mattress until he withdrew a slim roll of bills. "Thanks buddy – I promise, this'll be the last one, the last hit –"

"Roger, no!" Mark cried. He snatched the money out of Roger's sweaty hand. "It's not for smack – _no_! It's for AZT, because you're running low, you and Collins both, and . . ."

Roger barely heard him. All he registered was "No," and his face began to flush again, this time with fury. " 'No, no,'" he mocked Mark. "Well, I say 'yes'!" He stalked over to Mark, grabbed the cash from his grip, and shoved past him. Impulsively, Mark grabbed his larger friend, but withdrawal hadn't entirely dulled Roger's reflexes, and he slammed Mark into the wall with enough force to knock his glasses askew. Gasping, Mark shoved Roger back; they tussled briefly until Roger threw him against the heather. It struck Mark squarely in his back; with a cry of pain, he lurched forward.

"Mark," Roger gasped, aghast. "Mark, no . . ." Tears blurred his eyes, and all he could see was the bank lying in fragments, those little glasses cracked. With a violent retching noise, he stumbled to the bathroom and dry-heaved into the toilet. The heroin had made him feel invincible; without it, he was nothing but a pathetic, despicable child.


	2. Teacher, May 21, voice lessons

**Teacher**

By Trisana McGraw

_Author's Note: Written for the livejournal community speedrent challenge #128:_ voice lessons. _Set pre-RENT. As far as I know, there are no concrete details as to how Roger and April met (besides the flashback in the movie version of "One Song Glory"), so I hope that I'm not warping canon. Rated for swearing and mentions of drug use. The Prince song is "Sometimes It Snows In April."_

---

The last reverberations of his own voice bounced off the dark walls of the club as Roger replaced the mic and looked out over his audience. Most of his listeners, if they had even been paying attention to the Well Hungarians' music, nonetheless had their gazes fixed on their dancing companions or on their drinks.

A shock of dark red hair, tinted orange from the stage lights, startled him; he was even more surprised to see a pair of bright blue eyes beneath the tousled hair. The girl watched him without looking away, and she smiled, somewhat mischievously. Roger sent a slow grin back.

Presently he noticed that her lips were forming a word, something with an "or" sound in it, and repeating it over and over; he strained to understand. Suddenly, the Well Hungarians' bass guitarist jabbed him in the side, and with a small jolt he came back to reality, to the heat and sweat of the overcrowded room and the walls of voices on all sides screaming, "Encore, encore!" He was only too happy to oblige, and for the entire song, his eyes didn't leave the redhead.

After he had helped load their equipment into the bassist's van, Roger made his way over to the bar and slid onto a stool. Before he had even gotten the bartender's attention, the girl had sidled over to him. Her manner would have seemed demure had her blazing blue eyes not immediately locked onto his and held him in place until her small body was beside his.

"Great show," she offered with a casualness that wasn't the least bit forced. He nodded his thanks, subtly looking her up and down.

Her smile turned coy. "I was wondering if you could give me some voice lessons."

His eyebrows raised; he had to give her points not only for making the first move but for coming up with a creative pick-up. He chuckled wryly. "I don't know if they" – his gesture encompassed the people dancing and talking on all sides of them – "care about my singing so much as guitar playing."

"And looking good," she interjected.

He laughed again; he couldn't remember the last time he had laughed so easily without being drunk or with Mark and Maureen. "That too. You know what, fuck it. Why not? I'm Roger."

"April." _Sometimes it snows in April_, Prince sang in his head, _I feel so bad, so bad_.

"All right, why don't we start with me buying you a drink. It oils up the vocal cords," he added at her raised eyebrow.

She smiled slyly. "Of course. Lead on, maestro."

It wasn't long until his reason for laughing did become drunkenness, but Roger didn't give a shit. They were snickering like the teenagers they had been only a few short years ago, several empty glasses gathered between them. April had scooted over until she was perched somewhere between her stool and his lap; he had his fingers tangled in her messy hair and was "examining" her throat. "Very nice," he murmured approvingly, brushing first a gentle, and then a harder, kiss against her skin; her giggles vibrated against his lips.

They stumbled back to the loft – _Sometimes I wish that life was never ending, but good things, they say, never last_ – and barely made it to Roger's room without tugging the clothes off one another.

"Those are some pipes you've got," he gasped appreciatively some time later, cradling her head, her mop of red hair damp with sweat, against his shoulder.

He would never understand how quickly things progressed: she went from his bed to his loft to his friends' houses, and everything seemed to fit perfectly. If she weren't in his arms, she was in his mind, her lively image seared into his brain until the songs about April in his head were only his own.

---

"I've got something for you," April cooed, pushing open the door to the bathroom at CBGB.

"Whatcha doing?" Roger asked only half-irritatedly, wondering if she wanted a quickie before his show.

Her eyes were bright, which was strange in the dank bathroom, but he put it off to excitement (or arousal?). "I've got something that's gonna make you rock the _shit_ out of these guys," she whispered with an intensity he hadn't seen in her during the short time he had known her. "Not that you need it," she added hastily at his confused look. "Just think of it as . . . a performance enhancer."

He started to make a crack about not needing anything to get his dick up, but his words evaporated at the sight of the little plastic baggie she held up to him. He wasn't a virgin when it came to drugs – he could remember fondly several times that he, Collins, and even Benny had pissed themselves laughing while high on weed – but he'd never tried anything this hardcore.

"I dunno, honey –" he started, but April had shoved the baggie into his palm and was searching in her bag for something.

"I did some a coupl'a minutes ago, and it feels so good." She thrust a used needle into his hand; when he continued to hesitate, she fixed him with a surprisingly coherent glare. "Roger, baby, it's fantastic. And it'll bring out the rock god that's bursting to get out of here." She stroked his chest. "Come on, baby, it's fun." She kissed him lingeringly before pushing away from him. "Come on," she repeated, more forcefully.

He sighed. "Fine." April showed him how to make a tourniquet, but he was the one to slide the needle into his skin, his eyes never leaving her brilliant, if clouded, ones.

As he bounded onto the stage twenty minutes later with her last whisper – "Sing it for me!" – resounding in his ears, he realized that she had been right: this was whole planes above any high he'd been on before. He snatched the mic from its stand and tore into the opening song while the rest of the band rushed to keep up. Unlike the show at which they had played only a few weeks earlier, he noticed no details; the crowd was only a blurry, writhing mass of sweaty bodies, blaring their adoration for him – _him_!

Days, months before he would be savaged by wrenching chest pain and full-body spasms, Roger experienced a different definition of withdrawal: his voice seemed to be summoned from deep inside him by some greater force and violently propelled outward, its shockwaves reverberating in a never-ending loop around the throng of people. It was his song, for the woman he loved, for –

Oh fuck it. Who cared anymore?

_All good things, they say, never last _

_And love, it isn't love until it's past._


	3. Losses, June 5, pain gain loss

**Losses**

by Trisana McGraw

_Author's Note: Written for the livejournal community speedrent challenge #142:_ given voice lyrics. _Fic is slightly AU due to my interpretation of the following lyrics, from BARE_:

"_You can't begin to know_

_The pain you've caused_

_How do I make sense of what I've gained_

_And what I lost?"_

---

_April's pale body sprawled awkwardly in the bathtub, her white arm dangling over the lip. The pallid skin was marred with the scars of track marks, but now they resembled the veins of a leaf in something of a complement to the bright red that started at her wrist and blossomed outward. Frantic cries of disbelief, the grief of a wounded animal._

_Mimi Marquez, a shadow of her former radiance as the disease tore her apart from the inside out. Her trembling, ashy hands, fumbling without her dancer's confidence an endless supply of pills. First AZT but now something new – "To help me sleep," she rasped when asked, and her once clear voice now resembled her body, as ragged as if razor wire had been dragged over it. They found her slumped over the couch, not breathing, her skin untouched; her death had worked its damage from inside._

Two very different women, each imbued with her own brand of energy and life, shared something in common: each could trace her misery back to the man who had first granted her a piece of heaven, at so terrible a price.

April had tried to bleed her problems out, but her life escaped with them. Mimi had tried to smother them, but the weight was too much for her dim candle.

He resolved to do exactly what had to be done: to take action.

-

"What the fuck?" The Man gasped, clawing at his smashed nose and choking on his own metallic blood. Stars flooded his eyesight even as he tried to see where his attacker had escaped to. He flung his free arm at the air but encountered nothing.

"What's going on here?" A policeman surveyed the scene with cynical, bored eyes.

"I got punched, you asshole!" The Man snapped, shaking his head to clear the ringing in his ears, succeeding only in intensifying his headache. He pointed down the cold street. "It was that guy, the quiet one – Rock Star's friend, the one with the fucking scarf!"

The policeman's eyes showed no sign of understanding. "Sir, every person here is wearing a scarf."

"I – I – but it was Rock Star's friend, you know, the guy with the hair and the . . ."

The policeman sighed and rubbed his forehead. Idiot was probably high as a kite and had tripped himself over the sidewalk. As The Man continued to rant to the crowd that had gathered, the policeman turned and began to walk away. The city really should fix those cracks in the pavement, he thought to himself, and get these fucking dealers out of the parks.

-

Mark adjusted his glasses as he walked at a moderate pace out of the park, but he waited until he was safely out of sight before rubbing his throbbing hands together. He sucked at the blood that had gathered on his knuckles and couldn't help but smile.

He picked up speed, and by the time he had reached the loft, he was taking the stairs two by two.

He shoved through the door – it was never locked – calling, "Roger!" Without waiting for a reply as he took off his coat and scarf, he continued, "What a rush! I – well, you know I'm not violent, not at all, but this strange rage was coursing through me – it had been for a while, and, and I knew exactly what I had to do –"

A feeble note staggered through the air, cutting him off. Mark turned, and his euphoric grin melted off his face like a snowball in Santa Fe at the sight of Roger Davis not so much sitting, because he was so thin that he barely made an indentation on _anything_, but balanced on the edge of the tattered couch. Mark's eyes focused on Roger's hands, the gray skin stretched tightly over brittle bones that moved only to aimlessly pluck at rusted guitar strings; each note, that even he could tell was off, made him wince.

Mark swallowed and told him the entire (admittedly, short) story in detail, but not a moment of recognition flickered in Roger's muddy green eyes. Mark's elation was wiped away in an instant; he bitterly wondered if this were what it felt like to experience a smack high and the inevitable, debilitating spiral.

Two very different women, each imbued with her own brand of energy and life, shared something in common: each had taken with her a piece of Roger and left behind a splintered man.

---

_How do I make sense of what I've gained_

_And what I've lost?_


End file.
